Logjammed

  *****

  At home, I take a break from forming a lesson plan to make myself some coffee. As I do, I pass the stairs to the basement, the house’s entertainment center. Below come loud middle schooler voices, squeaking and yelping. Timothy and some of his friends, excited over video games. I know they’d want privacy, but I listen in anyway.

  From their yipping, I can gather Timothy won. “In yo face!” he says on repeat with that dizzying awkwardness preteens so uniquely achieve.

  “Yeah?” says a squeakier voice. “Well, that’s what your mom said last night.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” Timothy says with increased mirth.

  “Well, I’m your daddy, after all. Why else are you half-white?”

  I steady myself against the wall, gritting my teeth. I should’ve known I was a closet laughing stock, but surprise still whirls within me. The cruelty of children, the worst of humanity, one I’d seen so often in my field. And me, an acceptable target within my own home. Next will obviously come sounds of scuffling, and I’d certainly wait a full minute before intervening against Timothy’s blows. Adult duty, after all.

  But the rumbles of skirmish never come, only Timothy’s voice feigning a rural accent. “Son, I’ll have you know I’m an American, thank you very much.”

  “Dude, Cody,” comes a deeper if still immature voice, “not cool.”

  “What?” retorts the squeaker. “Jamie said that too last week.”

  Deeper voice starts to rise. “Well, I wasn’t there for that. And I’d tell him to get lost too.”

  Timothy sighs. “Guys, shut uuuuup. Cody, fetch me a coke, okay? Jesus.”

  Always strange, hearing one’s young brood curse. The years grow on him.

  I hear the rude boy bounding up the stairs, and that spurs me in retreat to the kitchen so I can intercept him. The calm teacher persona inside me says to let it go, that kids say awful things but can also charm, that if I challenged him, this Cody could plant a tree, give an impassioned plea for peace, offer alms to the poor, all with less hesitation than an adult. Ah, but that’s the thing about adults, their pride. My pride. An adult, after all.

  Cody rushes in, a pudgy boy, freckles on his face, fox-red fuzz for hair. He’d lose all that weight by the end of high school, I know, having seen that metamorphosis time and again. All of us, so unformed when young. But he shows no sheepishness upon seeing me, looking as aloof as so many of Timothy’s friends do. Timothy, so much more bright-eyed than any of them. And in the shadow of my heart, I want to believe this Cody will always be as ugly as he is now.

  My dutiful smile, as always. “Want a coke, Cody?”

  “Sure, Mister Choi.” He says my last name correctly, at least.

  “Choi,” I say, opening up the fridge. “That’s Korean, you know.”

  “That’s pretty neat.” Listless tone, listless face.

  “Let me pour you a cup.” I rummage through the kitchen cabinet. “Timothy’s only half-Korean, though.”

  Silence from him.

  I pour out the soda. “How do you think that happened?”

  Looking up from my task, I see him gazing down, lower lip twitching. He knows now that I heard him earlier. Good. We’ll see where this goes. Together.

  “Well?” I keep my voice calm, as if lecturing on the Prussian War. “I’m waiting.”

  A mumbled, “I don’t know.” The generic preteen answer to any and all questioning.

  “I don’t know either.” My hand rests firmly on the glass, my captive. “I was just curious on your thoughts.”

  More silence.

  “Legitimately curious.” Despite myself, I still hear a tinge of rawness in my prods.

  “Um.” His gaze darts around. “Timothy said he was adopted.” A lie. But the most I can expect from him.

  I unclasp the drink, realizing how foolish this all is. As if a teen would ridicule me to my face. As if my anger lies with him. Perhaps it aims at Timothy, for not pretending to be full Korean, as if the blond streaks in his hair and his eye shape don’t give him away. No, I hate myself, and no one else, not even the unknown lover.

  A leak of stress away from my smile. “(Thank you.)” I push the glass his way. “For talking to me. I feel like I don’t know Timothy’s friends well enough. It’s nice to chat with them.” I pause, sorting out my words. “All the same, let’s keep this conversation to ourselves, okay?”

  Wide-eyed, he gets out a, “N-n-no problem,” and vanishes along with his beverage. In the wake of his presence, I realize that I’d thanked him in Korean.